I Have to Have You
by Bethofbells
Summary: Post Be Cool, a story where we get to see what I think Danny would feel, and hopefully what he would do. :D


**A/N: So that one episode, man, left me on the floor sobbing, but in a good way. I think it's an important thing that serves a very vital purpose. It does not make me dislike Danny, nor do I find it out of character. I am team danny all the way, and team Mindy. I'm team let those figure things out. I love them. Please feel free to let me know what you think, in regards to the fic, or in regards to their characters in general. I absolutely adore hearing what you have to say. You're all a bunch of smart Mindians.**

He's not the kind of man to crawl into a bottle of bourbon. That's not how a real man handles these things. Heartbreak, that's not the kind of word to cross a real man's lips, and so it never crosses his. He's fine. He doesn't come home every night, to his empty and dark apartment, feeling like he's spent the entire day being someone's punching bag, like he's been held under water, forced to hold his breath for eight hours. Those bottles of fine Irish whiskey sitting in his liquor cabinet don't call to him. The amber liquid doesn't whisper it's ability to mute what he's feeling.

He's fine. There isn't a voice in his head, underneath the cacophony of reasons for what he did, that tells him he's just like his father, running scared when things look hard. He doesn't avoid calling his mother because he knows that she'll know something's wrong and he can't bear to tell her what he did, how pathetically like his father he was. He isn't the kind of person who picks up his phone every ten minutes to see if she's called, or rather, texted since that's what she would do if they were friends. And, God damn it, he's not so filled to the gills with regret that he can barely get out of bed in the morning. He's fine.

So fine, in fact, that when he catches himself scrolling through the pictures on his phone, selfies she took when he'd left it unattended, he doesn't angrily hurl the thing across the room, wincing as it bounces off the hardwood floor. He doesn't even rush over snatch it up, inspecting the thing for damage. There isn't even a little panic in his chest when he thinks it might not come back on, because he's no techie, and he'd never be able to retrieve the pictures. Nope.

He's fine, because it's his decision, and he did it before anyone got too attached, and even though he's horrible at lying to anyone else, he's really good at lying to himself.

So, he doesn't understand it when he searches for her face on the subway in the morning, or why he feels so disappointed when she's not there. Or worse, why he feels like there's a ton of bricks sitting on his chest when he does find her face. He doesn't understand why, the one time he gave into the siren call of Irish whiskey, he spent the entire night sitting in his kitchen floor listening to "Brownsville Girl" some whiskey soaked memory fighting it's way through the fog.

* * *

She was scrolling through his phone again, this time focused on the small collection of songs he'd managed to transfer to the thing, a glass of red wine in her free hand, between sips she commented on his taste in music. "Danny, isn't there anything on here from the last ten years?"

He shrugged. "I like what I like." They were sitting comfortably on his couch. Well, he was sitting. She was sprawled out, her feet flung in his lap as he tried to do paperwork. He pushed his glasses down on his nose, glancing at her over the tops of the frames. "Stop being so nosy, you might see something you don't want to." His tone was teasing, one eyebrow arched up.

She poked him in the ribs with one toe. "Please, Danny, I know you're too obsessed with me to entertain the possiblity of sexting another girl. I mean, look at this." She swiped across his phone. "You even listen to music that reminds you of me. 'Brownsville Girl?' Emphasis on BROWN." She nodded emphatically. "Who knew Jacob Dylan's dad writes music about Indian chicks?"

Danny laughed, putting aside his paperwork, and slipping of his specs. Turning, he leaned foward, crawling along the couch until his body was aligned with hers. They were nose to nose. "I know you know who Bob Dylan is."

She smiled up at him, a sight he couldn't get used to seeing, the sparkle in her eyes always inspired a hitch in his breathing. Attempting to cover it up, he captured her lips with his own, and set his hands free, slipping underneath the loose sweater she wore. He forgot about the song, forgot about everything except the feel of her under his fingertips, the scent of her in his nostrils.

_Brownsville girl with your Brownsville curls, teeth like pearls shining like the moon above Brownsville girl, show me all around the world, Brownsville girl, you're my honey love._

* * *

He sees her every single day, and each time her eyes fall away from his face, he feels a fresh stab of guilt, of pain. He reminds himself that this is a good thing. He doesn't feel his resolve slipping. The urge to burse into her office and crush her to him doesn't accost him multiple times a day. He's not an open wound. It's fine, he's fine. He's not allowed to feel so sick about all of this, it was his doing.

And, when he notices that she's uncharacteristically subdued, that the office doesn't ring with her peels of laughter, her shrieks of outrage, he isn't so overcome with guilt that he spends as much time as logistically possible at the hospital, away from it all. It's not like he expects her to go into a tailspin, taking heartache days, drinking copious amounts of wine. He doesn't compare this quiet acceptance to the breakdowns he's seen in the past. It makes perfect sense to him, he did the right thing, she wasn't attached. He knows it will be ok. He isn't sick and twisted, he doesn't secretly wish he'd walk in on her, sprawled out on the carpet of her office, listening to Taylor Swift and crying softly as she eats gummie bears. He's not a raving lunatic. He doesn't want that. He's glad that she's ok, or at least almost ok. It doesn't hurt at all.

There's not even a part of him that wishes he could have answered her tearful question, instead of just choking out an apology. He doesn't wish he'd told her about swirling sensation in his gut when he looked at her, or the feeling that he was falling without a parachute. He doesn't think about whether or not she would have reciporcated the feeling, whether or not that loaded word would have been echoed back at him. He definitely doesn't have dreams of that very thing on a nightly basis.

Danny knows he made the right decision, she's still here, sitting a wall away, working quietly in her office. It's not like their friendship is becoming completely nonexistant. She doesn't loiter outside the building, talking to random strangers until she knows Danny is already on his way up in the elevator. She doesn't leave early so they don't have to share the subway. It isn't as though he's totally lost the very thing he wanted to keep. It's not like that at all. It's fine, really. He's getting so good at lying.

One day he stops. He can't do it anymore. It's all over. All the tiny cracks spiderwebbing across his facade splinter, and everything comes crashing down around him. They haven't spoken to each other in days, floating through the office like ghosts, pretending the other one doesn't exist. It's just too much. He feels it all again, the flood of emotion he's held at bay with this dam of denial. Self loathing cascades over him as he remembers, freshly, the cowardly thing he'd done. He leaves early, and heads home, intent on getting blackout drunk, wiping the day from his memory, hoping to wake up, his denial once again firmly in place.

Things don't always work like he expects them to. Alcohol has never been a coping mechanism for him, it doesn't take away the sharp edges. It gives him a false sense of courage, a horribly undeserved feeling of righteous indignation. It lights a fire under him.

* * *

He stood there, still emboldened by the fiery liquid swishing around in his stomach. He'd come this far, standing in front of her door, and he couldn't go back. He was a sweaty mess, his body temperature rising as the alcohol coursed through his veins and anxiety swam through his head. This was a bad idea, he knew that, yet he couldn't see any way around it.

He swallowed as his fingers curled into a fist, rising to knock out a tentative tattoo on the heavy wood paneling. He didn't really expect her to answer. It was past midnight, she was either asleep or out with friends, either way Danny felt lightheaded with relief when there was no answer. He didn't have the courage to knock again, suddenly feeling too sober for any of this.

He turned, shuffling toward the elevator at the end of the hall. The sound of tumblers shifting as her locks disengaged sent his heart into his throat. His feet stilled, but he couldn't turn around. He couldn't stand to see the look of annoyance on her face, to hear the anger as she told him to leave.

His shoulders slumped and he continued to the elevator.

"Danny?" Her voice was soft, and surprised. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't sound annoyed, not really, but there was something else in her voice, something precarious and fragile. He turned around, and he saw it reflected in her face. Confusion had settled across her features.

He walked back toward her, lifting his hand and settling it on the back of his neck. "Um, I'm sorry." Her face fell and he winced, hating that such common words had the power to bring back such a gut wrenching memory, for both of them.

"You didn't answer my question, Danny." There it was, the annoyance he'd expected. Somehow they were playing out their fight again. It couldn't end the same, he wouldn't let it.

"I know. It's getting to be a bad habit of mine." He inched closer to her, hating the way she shielded herself with the door, only poking her head out. "Can I come in?"

She hesitated, tracing her finger along the edge of the door and

looking away. She nodded quickly, not raising her eyes to meet his as she stepped back and retreated into her apartment.

She walked over to her kitchen, digging through the pantry until she found what she was looking for, a bag of coffee. She fluttered over her coffee pot, pointedly ignoring his presence.

"What are you doing, Min?"

"Making coffee, you smell like a distillery. Which shouldn't surprise me. Why else would you be here?" There was bitterness in her voice.

He blinked, the sound of her ire sobering him up. "What?"

She snorted, derisively. "What is this Danny? Some sort of late night alcohol induced booty call? Well, you can forget that. I'm not your secret girlfriend anymore. Remember, we're friends, so I'm making you coffee."

Danny frowned, leaning back on the island as he watched her angrily measure out the coffee grounds, sloshing the water in the pot as she poured it in the back of the appliance. He sighed, pressing his fingers into his closed eyes. "Are we friends?" Before she could answer he continued, everything he'd been thinking creeping up to the surface. "Because it doesn't feel that way. It feels like you hate me, and that you wish we'd never met. It feels like the biggest mistake of my life was made a couple weeks ago, and I can't figure out how to fix it. I feel like you've left me, like you're not in my life anymore."

He shoved away from the counter. Spinning away from her, he paced as the words continued to fall from his lips. "Why can't you just do this for me? I've resigned myself to being alone, to never finding anyone to spend the rest of my life with. I'm a fuck up. I know that, but can't I at least have one friend? Why can't you give me that?"

He felt her come at him, shoving him angrily. "Are you kidding me? Do you even hear yourself? YOU STARTED THIS! YOU KISSED ME! Why?" Her small fists thumped against his chest as she shoved him again.

He didn't fight back. He could see the tears shining in her eyes, ready to fall at any second, and his heart constricted, his throat closed. He swallowed, blinking away the threatening tears. "I was wrong. I... I thought.." He couldn't do it, cowardly again, the words left him. He let out a long breath. "I'm in too deep."

She stilled, sniffing as the tears pooled in her eyes broke free and and rolled down her cheeks. "Damn it, Danny. Answer my one I asked that night."

He took her by the shoulders, and tried to find reassurance in her eyes, but she was unreadable, her mouth set firmly, chin jutting out. He took a leap. "Fine. I kissed you because I was already in love with you, and I saw you slipping away."

"L-love?"

He nodded, feeling stupid. "But, God, I know you don't feel the same, even if it were possible, it's too soon." His voice broke, and he took a deep breath. "You're just this ball of energy and light and color and affection, and I'm standing here angry and alone this huge raincloud, carrying around all of this baggage. I know you'll get tired of it, get tired of having to convince me of things, of me arguing with you. I know it, and it already hurts so much now. I think it would kill me if it happened after I'd had even more time too bask in your light."

She was crying now, looking down, her hair hanging in front of her face. "God, Danny, you're so stupid sometimes." She leaned forward, laying her head against his chest as she continued to cry. "I love arguing with you. I love convincing you of things. I love listening to you rant about things that make you mad. A raincloud? Sure, but I think it compliments the sunshine. I love you, you idiot."

He felt her tears soaking through his shirt, the moisture settling against his skin. His arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him. "You do?" He hated how desperate the words sounded, but he had a hard time believing he was hearing them. He almost thought maybe he'd conjured up this whole scene. "But, you took everything in stride. You didn't flip out, or spiral into sadness. You were calm. I don't understand."

In response, she squeezed him tighter, a small sob escaping her throat. "That first night all I did was sob in my bed. I didn't move after you left. I didn't get undressed. I just collapsed there. I felt broken Danny. Eventually the tears ran out, and then all I felt was empty. There's no energy for theatrics when you're empty." She gulped down a hiccup. "It was so much worse than any of the other times."

He hated that her misery sent a giddy feeling of hope through him, but he couldn't shake it. He reached up, threading his fingers through her hair to cradle her head. "Min, I love you. I... I'm an asshole and an idiot, and I always have been, and there's a good chance I always will be." He kissed the top of her head, burrying his nose in her hair.

She let out a small laugh against his chest. "Yes, you are." He could feel the tenseness draining from her limbs. "But, you also have this giant capacity to love, I know it, and I hurt for you when I think of how people have let you down."

He sighed. "Mindy, this is gonna be so hard."

She nodded. "It is."

He pulled back from her, brushing the hair from her face. "But, I have to have you." He kissed her, feeling for the first time in weeks like he was alive, his heart beat out of his chest, bumping against his sternum.

Mindy released his lips, breathing heavily against them. "I have to have you too."

_Strange how people who suffer together have stronger connections than people who are most content._

_I don't have any regrets, they can talk about me plenty when I'm gone._

_You always said people don't do what they believe in,_

_they just do what's most convenient, then they repent._

_And I always said, "Hang on to me, baby, and let's hope that the roof stays on."_


End file.
